Chosen for the Marriage Bed (6 page)

‘I need to speak with you, my lord.’

‘I don’t have time for this.’ He would have stepped past her, but she surprised him with a hand to his sleeve. His glance sharpened. ‘Well?’

‘Spare her the public bedding, my lord.’

And before he could ask more, the woman had bustled away. But of course he did not need to ask. He had not needed her warning. Or perhaps he had, because in the deluge of demands on his time he had not thought of the repercussion for Elizabeth of the traditional, very public disrobing of bride and groom, had accepted that it was part of the drink-fuelled celebration as much as the vows and the priest’s pious words. The memory of silvery weals of the lash on her shoulders jolted him back to what he must do. Whatever the residual annoyance from their recent en counter, he could not inflict an array of prurient and inquisitive eyes on her.

He was sorry to have spoken to Elizabeth as he had. There were depths—uncomfortable ones—to his bride that he had not even come close to discovering.

The door to Nicholas Capel’s circular chamber at Talgarth was shut and bolted. There must be no prying eyes to this ceremony. The marriage was imminent; now was the time to take action. All it took was the wax from two stalwart candles, judiciously softened, to fashion two figures. He smoothed, formed, crimped and carved, until two figures lay on the table, male and female. Crudely manipulated yet easily recognisable, naked and sexually explicit.

So the marriage was assured, but it would do no harm to give fate a twist. Capel smote his hands together in a sharp gesture of authority.

‘Let us draw the pair together, with or without their will. Let us ensure the power of Malinder’s loins to get an heir on the woman.’

Capel poured water from an ewer into a silver bowl marked with Christian symbols. He murmured Latin words over the water, consecrating it, and then sprinkled the holy liquid to name the two figures.

‘I name thee both: Richard Malinder. Elizabeth de Lacy.’

From a fold of parchment he shook the contents. Two dark hairs from the head of Richard Malinder. Two longer, equally dark, Elizabeth’s hair from before her departure to Llanwardine. Then, winding the hair around their crude necks, Capel placed the figures face to face, breast to breast, thigh to thigh, and with strong wire he bound them close until they were tight knit.

‘May your union be effective and fruitful,’ Capel murmured with a vicious sat is faction. And smiled gloatingly.

How trusting John de Lacy was in his innocence, believing that the authority was fast in his own fist. How willing he was to follow advice when power was dangled before him, a juicy plum to fall from the tree into his waiting hand.

Except, Capel rubbed his hands together, de Lacy would not be the one to catch the falling fruit.

Richard offered his hand to his bride. Elizabeth placed hers there, lightly. He gave a little nod, either of acceptance or encouragement, his fingers closing warm and firm before they turned together for him to lead her up the final steps to the waiting priest. And there was some thing that needed to be said.

‘Forgive me my harsh words of yesterday.’

‘I do.’ Her gaze was solemn. ‘I ask pardon for my lack of grace.’

‘I give it freely.’

In her new finery Elizabeth felt strong and confident. Even the weak sun had decided to bless her and to gild her appearance. Its fragile heat comforted her, encouraging her tense muscles to relax. Soon she would be Elizabeth de Lacy no more. She kept her head raised, her chin lifted, secure in her rank and position as Lady of Ledenshall. Why should she not be happy?

She had been quite wrong after all. Richard Malinder had no intention of wedding her in campaigning garments and the dust of four days or more of hard travel. Her heart stuttered, just once, before resuming its steady beat. At her side he looked magnificent. His dark hair had gleamed as he inclined his head to welcome her. Clad in deep green-and-black brocade, patterned in fluid swirls, his knee-length tunic trimmed with an opulent edging of dark fur, his status as a Marcher lord was pro claimed for all to see in the jewelled and gilded belt to secure his sword at his side. There was a glint of costly rings on his fingers. A heavy gold and gem-studded chain of wealth and power rested on his shoulders. Richard Malinder, Elizabeth suspected, could play the role of courtier equally as well as that of soldier and lord of a Marcher fortress.

What woman would not wish to marry this man? Elizabeth raised her eyes to his, soothed by what she read there. For she saw an under standing of what would be an ordeal for her through a long day, but also a gleam of admiration in the clear grey depths. Admiration, it seemed, for her. And it brought a wave of delicately flattering colour to her cheeks.

Richard was aware of nothing but the cool hand in his, and the subtle differences in his bride from the uneasy creature who had exchanged edgy opinions with him on the battlements little more than a week ago. She had been busy in his absence. Tall and undoubtedly elegant, the rich velvet flowing around and behind her, the fluid lines were all grace and softness, completely destroying his memory of a brittle bride without charm or allure. The long, tight sleeves ended in furred cuffs, over which flowed open sleeves, so cut that they flowed down to her hem in sumptuous pleatings. The sun shimmered on the rippling folds of a butterfly veil, arranged to fall to her shoulders over thin wires.

A cosy armful? No, but by God she was not the sodden creature whose cat had left a lasting memento of its dislike. Unobserved, he flexed his hand. Perhaps his bride too could be seduced into retracting her claws.

As they took their place before the priest, everything for Elizabeth settled into clear and vivid focus, not least the fact that a dark cloud settled over all before the vows were fully made so that everyone shivered and pulled cloaks tight. It was not an omen, she insisted. In a clear voice, Richard announced the extent of the dowry that his bride had brought with her. Startled at the extent, she tightened her fingers in his. Of course, it would have been necessary for Richard Malinder to be bought. But so much? It was a high price for John de Lacy to hand over, this important swathe of land through the centre of the March. She hoped Richard would find the bargain worth it.

After which it all happened so fast, Elizabeth de Lacy becoming a Malinder bride rather than a Bride of Christ before she could even catch her breath. Lips touched in a cool and symbolic kiss. And the gold ring, deeply engraved, slid smoothly—very smoothly—over her knuckle and on to her finger.

They feasted in the Great Hall.

Elizabeth shared the bridal cup and the plate with her lord to enthusiastic cheers as their guests began to empty their own cups of ale and wine, liberally supplied, frequently filled. In a futile attempt to turn her mind from the hours to come, she sought out her family in the mass of guests.

There was Sir John, dark and saturnine with just a hint of arrogance and condescension. Beside him his wife of a second marriage, Lady Ellen, quiet and introspective. She could see Lewis, a little farther away, festively garbed but looking particularly solemn tonight, neither content nor at ease, which for him was unusual. And David, high spirited, enjoying the spectacle with bright eyes. At that moment she caught the direction of Sir John’s eyes as they focused sharply on Richard. Appraising, calculating, his lips pressed close, some thing there she could not quite decipher, but knowing it was not pleasant. Beside him sat Master Capel. Now that was a surprise, that he should have accompanied her uncle to the marriage feast. The man leaned to murmur in Sir John’s ear, causing Sir John to smile. Elizabeth lifted her shoulders against the softness of the velvet. Sir John always had some scheme in his mind.

The banquet was coming to an end. A fluttering of anticipation and of distress blossomed in her belly, moths’ wings, as she remembered all too clearly Anne Malinder’s spiteful words, intended to hurt.

What will Richard say when he sees you?

Anne had laughed, pre tending dismay at her remarks. Elizabeth felt nausea rise in her throat at the thought of the public bedding. How much of her scars had he already seen? Enough to repulse him? She did not even have the luxury of re treating behind a silken fall of hair when the revellers invaded the bedchamber. When her chemise and veil were removed. What, indeed, would Richard say? What cruel, humiliating comments would the guests exchange over their ale?

‘What is it?’ Richard’s voice was low, between them alone.

Apparently he had been watching her. When she turned her head she saw an awareness in his eyes, and was moved that he should be concerned for her. ‘Nothing, my lord. Other than being watched for every move I make, by your family and mine.’

‘Does it matter? You are Lady of Ledenshall and may do as you please.’ Then as she frowned down into her silver goblet, ‘Look at me.’ He smiled as she did so, his austere features softening, sending a little flush of heat across her skin, dispel ling the suspicion from her dark eyes. ‘Let us then give our interested guests some thing to nudge and speculate over.’

Elizabeth found herself smiling in return. ‘What do you suggest?’

Before she was aware, he leaned smoothly, bent his head and kissed her full on her mouth. Not the cool brief symbol of the marriage ceremony, but some thing far warmer, full of promise. Her lips remained parted as he re treated. Heat pooled in her belly and bright colour surged into her face.

‘That will make them talk,’ she managed.

‘So it will!’ And, to her astonishment and delight, Richard kissed her again.

With the memory of his wife’s mouth warm on his, Richard deliberately found the opportunity to circulate amongst the guests. All his senses were on the alert despite the numerous toasts. It was clear to him that Elizabeth was not the only de Lacy to be showing signs of tension.

‘Lewis.’ He hooked an empty stool next to the young man and sat.

‘My lord…’

‘Richard!’ He smiled. ‘Your brother already makes free with my name.’

‘My brother has no respect!’ Lewis also managed a smile, if bleak.

‘You’re very sombre for such an occasion. Problems?’

There was a pause, brief as a heart beat as Lewis obviously made a decision. ‘No. Except that… I would say…’ Richard found himself fixed by Lewis’s troubled stare.

‘You can tell me, you know. I can be very discreet—for a Lancastrian.’ He tried to infuse some humour into the situation, to draw the poison from whatever ailed Elizabeth’s brother, but failed.

‘Nothing.’ Lewis’s face remained set in severe lines and he broke the eye contact. ‘I have no excuse and shouldn’t inflict my bad mood on my sister’s celebration. I’m glad for you. And for Elizabeth.’

Which left Richard with no choice but to let his concern drop. But without doubt Lewis had some thing on his mind.

‘I hope your marriage is blessed.’ Ellen de Lacy’s hands gripped Elizabeth’s as she wished her well, far more fiercely than the occasion war ranted. ‘That you bear a son. As I have failed to do.’

‘I am so sorry.’ Elizabeth knew the yawning grief in Ellen’s life and heart but it had never been spoken of so openly between them as now. A most private lady, and apparently dominated by her often insensitive husband, Ellen kept her thoughts to herself. ‘And you must miss Maude.’

‘I do. We all do. I loved her as if she were my own daughter. But Sir John hoped for a son of his own.’

‘I am sure he does not blame you, Ellen.’ Elizabeth found that she was not sure at all, but did not know what to say to comfort the grief in the lady’s eyes. There was much tragedy here. Lady Ellen had carried two male children, but neither to full term. Both had been dead before they ever took a breath.

‘It is not important.’ The reply was cool, care fully controlled.

‘Are you not happy?’ Elizabeth risked.

Ellen squeezed her hand. ‘There’s no need for your concern, Elizabeth. Enjoy your bridal day.’

But Elizabeth knew that Ellen had not answered her final indelicate question, and thought she detected a bleak unhappiness before the lady turned away. It was all strangely un settling.

Chapter Six

E
lizabeth’s gown was removed and folded away. The chemise she retained, and replaced the intricate veiling with a soft linen covering, secured by a simple filet. She would not take them off yet. Jane would have continued to fuss, but Elizabeth had had enough and finally ordered her out, then sat on the edge of her bed and waited, hands clasped. She had been offered much advice as a virgin, most of which she had heard before, most of which she thought she should ignore, and was given a cup of spiced wine to calm her nerves, but she put it aside without drinking. She would rather face Richard Malinder with her wits about her.

It did not take long. Richard and his rowdy escort climbed the stairs and approached along the corridor. It would have been impossible not to hear the shouts and laughter, the ribald jokes at his expense. She braced herself, pushed herself to her feet and re treated to stand with her back to the low fire, partly shadowed by the bed hanging. It was one thing to face the ordeal with de Lacy courage, it was quite another to invite attention and speculation. The door opened, the noise flooded in. Elizabeth tensed, swallowing against the knot of sheer panic in her throat, forcing herself to stand straight with eyes level.

Richard did not enter. He remained in the doorway, turned his back to her and blocked the door to those who would follow. ‘You go no farther this night, my friends.’ His voice was low, full of humour, but not to be ignored. It was also perfectly sober.

‘Embarrassed, are you, Richard?’

‘Experienced, I think. I’ve suffered this once before.’ Richard stayed four square in the doorway, his hand on the latch, an effective bar. ‘I received all the advice I needed on that occasion. From some of you here, as I remember. It did me no good the first time.’

‘Perhaps not—but you’ve been putting it into practice ever since!’ Laughter, loud and appreciative, filled the room.

‘As you say. So I don’t need you tonight. Goodnight, gentle men. Ale is still to be had in the Great Hall—you can drink my health and that of my bride until you no longer have the strength to raise your arms.’ And Richard closed the door in their faces, leaned back against it as the shouts and hoots of the revellers faded.

‘Thank God. You forget how noisy feasts are. I’ll be deaf for a se’enight.’

Elizabeth could not believe her good fortune. Had he done that for her? His consideration took her aback, and his perfectly common place comment went a little way to soothing her fears.

‘That was masterly. And very kind.’

‘That was self-preservation.’

When Richard began to unbuckle his sword belt, Elizabeth found herself automatically approaching to take the sword from him, and the gold chain, which she placed on top of a coffer. If he noted her return of confidence when given something to occupy her mind and fingers, he made no comment, but handed her the gold-and-ruby brooch that had secured the neck of his tunic. She laid it aside and then helped him unlace and removed the furred garment, folding it away as he slid off the heavy rings. When he stood in shirt and hose, she waited. His gaze was speculative. A shiver traced its path down her spine.

Then he grinned. ‘Now…some where…’ He looked round the room, before walking to the corner beside the door. ‘I had this brought up earlier.’ He lifted a large wrapped package. ‘I had to return to Hereford for this—almost missed my own marriage for its sake.’ He slanted a wry smile at her. ‘I hope you like it, lady—and will not take me to task again.’

Elizabeth had the grace to blush and catch her bottom lip in her teeth, remembering her brusque acknowledgement of his return, all based on her fears that he had spent the intervening days in the arms and luscious curves of Mistress Joanna. Recalling the confrontation between them when she had greeted him so gracelessly, she felt a shiver of anticipation, like a fingernail tracing down the length of her spine. He had won that en counter, had he not? And she had had a fore taste of his formidable will. He was not a man to be challenged without due cause, and yet he had brought her a gift.

‘What is it?’ She took the parcel from him.

‘You’ll not know unless you open it.’

Elizabeth re pressed another shiver, this time of delight at any present, and that he should have thought about her. She ripped the ties from the coarse linen covering so that out, on to the bed, tumbled a cloak. A little sound of pleasure escaped from her throat as she lifted it. Blue velvet, dark as night, fine as any garment made for the royal court, lined with the finest sables, a deep hood to protect from the coldest weather.

‘You need it.’ He sat on the edge of the bed with a little smile as she crooned over the gift, stroking her hands over the luxurious weight of it, marvelling at its softness and quality, before swinging it around her shoulders. It draped in sumptuous folds to her feet, swirling with a glamorous life of its own as she strode the width of the chamber and back.

‘Definitely Penthesilea,’ he remarked as Elizabeth swept once more across the room.

‘Hmm?’ She halted, to look back over her shoulder.

‘Queen of the Amazons, if I remember my education.’

‘So she was,’ Elizabeth replied, casually revealing her own knowledge of classical texts and the Siege of Troy. ‘But she died in battle. And fought bare breasted.’

‘So she did,’ Richard replied calmly.

Elizabeth continued her perambulations, to come finally to a stop before him. ‘It is…beautiful.’ She raised her eyes, luminous with pleasure. Then lifted the fur to her cheek. ‘I suppose I have to forgive you your late return.’

‘Indeed you do. And also—I have this. You’ll need this too.’ He held out a small package, the size of his palm, wrapped in leather.

‘Another present?’ Her eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘Have you done some thing other that I should know of and be willing to forgive you for?’

At which he laughed, a robust sound that filled the chamber and tinted her cheeks with colour. ‘No, I swear it. But, yes, another present. You are my wife and it is my pleasure to give you them.’

It was a brooch to fasten the cloak. But not like any brooch she had ever seen with its entwined circles of gilding. A medley of miniature lions and red boars with tusks and tongues of gold leapt and snarled in her hand, the gold-and-red enamel gleaming in the candlelight as she moved her palm. Vividly alive and colourful, the little animals made her smile.

‘How did you know?’

‘I have my sources.’

‘It was my mother’s emblazon. Matilda Vaughan of Tretower.’

‘I know.’

‘You had it made for me.’ Astonished pleasure swamped her.

‘I commissioned it from a met al worker in Hereford. And I think it most appropriate for you. For so a fierce lady.’

‘Am I so?’ Her glance flew to his face, certain that he must be laughing at her expense, but he was not.

He chose not to reply, but stretched to pour her wine. ‘Sit with me.’ Elizabeth held the cloak to her, un willing to be parted from its sensuous folds for a moment, and placed it on the bed as she sat. He poured wine for himself before regarding her seriously. ‘I suggest, my wife, that we make our own vows. To loyalty and honesty. To allow no one to come between us. No matter who. No matter what.’

Elizabeth nodded, absorbing his words. ‘I will do that.’

‘Then let us drink to our future together.’

They raised their cups and drank the spiced hippocras, until, with a dramatic shudder, Richard set the wine aside. ‘Too heavy on the spices for my taste. Now I must indeed take you to bed or risk comment on my virility.’

He stood in one easy movement and pulled back the linen from the bed. Then froze, the linen still grasped in his fist.

‘What is it?’ Elizabeth took a deep breath. She thought she knew.

‘Come and look.’ The coarse cream linen was covered with a deluge of dried leaves, discoloured flower petals and twiggy pieces of flower stalk. ‘What are they?’

Elizabeth raised her hands to her mouth, unsure whether to laugh or curse her serving woman. Jane was leaving nothing to chance. ‘I won’t tell.’ The words were muffled.

Richard’s eyes gleamed. ‘Is it my virility or your fertility to be enhanced here?’

Elizabeth sighed. He was not angry after all. ‘Both, I imagine.’ She poked at the pot pourri, recognising Jane’s favoured means of aiding conception in mistle toe and hazel leaves, lavender to arouse sexual desire. Even, she thought, some ground acorn, and a preponderance of dried yarrow flowers and rose petals to ensure a long and happy union. ‘It’s Jane Bringsty’s doing. I should tell you that she means well.’

‘Does she? I see no sign of well meaning in the woman. As for this… But no harm done.’ He swept the debris from the bed to the floor with firm gestures. ‘More like to produce a rash from the sharp edges than a heightening of physical powers. Perhaps I shouldn’t ask what was in the hippocras.’ All Elizabeth could do was watch him with some degree of awe until Richard straightened and turned to face his wife. ‘Come then, lady. Let us try the sheets.’ He drew her towards him, his hands softly around her wrists. ‘Permit me to unveil you.’

And did so.

And looked. Elizabeth would have closed her eyes, but forced herself to acknowledge his reaction to her. Despair held her motionless. Richard made no comment, his face impassive. He unfastened the neck of her chemise and pushed it to fall to the floor, leaving her to stand defenceless before him, whilst Elizabeth again denied the urge to close her eyes against any pity she might see, or distaste. She would invite neither, but face him. She swallowed and waited, nor would she look away from him as his eyes moved slowly, tracking down her body and back to her face. He hissed in a breath through his teeth, as if helpless to prevent it.

‘Turn around, Elizabeth.’

She did, now closing her eyes against a threat of tears when he could not see. Heard him inhale firmly through his nose.

‘Look at me.’ He waited until she had gone full circle and faced him again before speaking. His voice was low, firm. She could detect neither pity nor revulsion there, for which she was grateful beyond her imaginings. ‘Ah—Elizabeth. I did not realise.’

‘What did you not realise?’ She ran her tongue over her dry lips.

‘That is was so… That it was so bad.’

Elizabeth once more found the need to blink away tears, but would not allow them to fall. ‘I thought you saw me. That you knew the worst. That first night…’

‘Only a glimpse in the shadows. I thought there were marks of a whip. But I had no idea of this… Llanwardine?’ He looked at the short silk of her hair. Lifted a hand as if he would have touched it—but let it fall.

‘Yes.’

‘And this?’ His gaze lowered to the silvery scars marking her ribs.

She shivered at the calm inspection, his eyes flat, face determinedly impassive, and thought for a moment, before deciding on the truth in the face of his calm acceptance. ‘In some part.’ And she thought by the mere tightening of his lips that he under stood the lack of explanation.

‘I would hope that it was not to persuade you to marry me.’

‘No. Owain Thomas was the one I could not stomach. But—more recently—I was not a conformable novice.’

‘Neither did you eat, I think.’

She knew that he saw the press of her collar bone against her skin, her slight breasts, narrow hips. Tried to make light of it. ‘Your cook has a campaign to fatten me.’ And was unable to prevent a shiver, still standing un clothed with the cool air spiking her skin, Richard frowning at her.

His response was immediate. ‘Forgive me. That was thoughtless.’

It was the simplest matter for him to lift her new cloak and wrap it around her, soft and warm in the sable folds. It enabled Elizabeth to mask her relief. She would accept his compassion tonight. She might not want pity from this man, but it was far better than disgust. She could do nothing but admire his sensitivity and consideration. To her relief she found her composure restored, the trembling in her limbs eased.

Until Richard raised his hand, impelled by some basic impulse, to smooth it over her cap of hair. Without thought, she flinched, eyes wide.

And he immediately drew back his hand as if singed in a flame. ‘Don’t flinch from me. I would not hurt you. How could you think that?’ His tone was harsh and his eyes flashed with naked emotions that were beyond her interpreting. For a moment Elizabeth thought she saw anger there. Or perhaps it was even despair, although why it should be she did not know. It forced her into an apology.

‘I did not mean to. It is just that… It surprised me. I dreamed of you doing that. I liked it. In my dream my hair was as it used to be, long and thick—not like this. I am ashamed of this,’ she explained.

Richard visibly relaxed with a long exhalation as if in relief. What had he thought she meant? Elizabeth did not know, but some thing had disturbed him. Something she had said or done. But whatever it was, the moment seemed to have passed. The hard lines bracketing his mouth had smoothed out.

‘There’s no need for shame. The blame is not yours. It’s lovely, Elizabeth, the softest of sable pelts.’ Richard leaned forwards to press his lips to her temple. ‘Soon your hair will be long again and very beautiful. And when it is,’ he continued, ‘I will touch you again as in your dreams.’

Elizabeth smiled, an in credible flicker of anticipation for the future in her heart. He had forgiven her sharp tongue. There again was the depth of sheer kindness, of under standing she could never have hoped for.

‘Will you put out the candle?’ she asked. And he did.

The darkness would prove a soft benediction for them both.

For Elizabeth it cloaked her in blessed anonymity when he touched her again with shocking intimacy. Anything to hide her scant knowledge, her lack of confidence in her ability to please, her sharp anxieties. Too self-conscious, too aware of her lack of at tractions, it soothed her immediate tremors. In the dark it did not matter. If there was a disgust or a mere distant tolerance on his face she would not see it. She must only endure.

But then,
endurance
was not the word that forced its way into Elizabeth’s mind. Rather, startled pleasure. She found her fears melting as she warmed under the firm stroke of his hands and the delicate play of his lips across her face. His smooth strength against her side, firm muscled, sliding flesh against flesh, astonished her, as did the cautious delight that she could find in it. If he could touch her, so could she touch him, and found in herself a strong desire to do so. And so she let her fingers press over the lean hard planes of his chest and shoulders, an intimate journey of their own. So very attractive. So very masculine. How could she not enjoy the sensation of banked power and purpose, even as her thoughts scram bled at the confusion of sensations that shivered through her at where it would all lead.